Mo Ghile Mear
by LadyTemeraire
Summary: Francis chases after lovers; Arthur avoids them altogether; yet deep down, they're more alike than they seem, and they're the only ones who know why. A collection of snapshots throughout their history. Slightly angsty history, oneshot.


Disclaimer: Not mine, too bad. Not mine, so sad.

***

Mo Ghile Mear

_May 1431_

Francis was in Rouen; he did and yet did not wish to be there. Did not because - well, it was British-held territory. It was foreign and cramped and full of people who hated him. Being held in contempt in another land was one thing, but on his own soil it was quite another, and he detested the feeling.

His reason for being there, however, overrode his discomfort at the situation.

Almost.

"_Mon Dieu_," he growled at the unbelievably tenacious guard in his way, "can you not set aside your British pride for a few moments?"

"No one is allowed in," the guard repeated mechanically.

"Just five minutes," the Frenchman pleaded. "Surely you can permit that. All I wish to do is speak with her; you don't even have to open the cell door."

The guard shrugged. "I have my orders."

"_Merde_," Francis snarled. "If all your people are this uptight, it is no wonder she was able to drive you out so easily."

A spark of anger flashed in the guard's eyes. _Good_. "It doesn't matter," the Briton snapped. "In a few days the French whore will be dead, and the problem will be solved."

One swift punch, and the guard was out cold with his keys in Francis' hands.

He took a few deep breaths, not moving until he could hear something other than the blood rushing in his ears. After he was quasi-calm, he walked quickly to the door of the cell block and started trying keys.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Francis didn't even bother looking at Arthur. "Speaking with Jeanne."

"Good God, man, are you mad?" Arthur sounded genuinely astounded. "You're going to get yourself killed with her."

Francis laughed bleakly. "Come now, _Angelterre_, you and I both know that's impossible." _No matter how much I wish it were otherwise._

Arthur fell silent for a brief moment. "You know she is going to die."

"_Oui_."

"Then why...?"

He finally got the door open and tossed Arthur the key ring; the green-eyed man caught it by reflex. "To give her what comfort I can. Is that too much to ask?"

Arthur had no answer, and Francis did not wait for one.

He found her cell easily - she was practically the only one there - and knelt by the iron grate. "Jeanne," he called gently, "Jeanne, it is I."

She stirred from her pile of straw, blinking muzzily, and slid over to him. "Francis?"

The Frenchman took her hand in his through the bars. "_Oui, mon cheri_." He frowned a little. "Your hands are freezing."

The young woman turned a shiver into a nonchalant shrug. "It is not so bad. I have been colder on the battlefield."

Francis felt his lips twitch and pressed a kiss to her chapped hands. "_Mon petit chevalier courageux_," he whispered.

Jeanne squeezed his hands lightly. "Not so much," she murmured. "I fear the stake... but more than that, I fear eternal fire." She glanced down at her tunic and trouser-clad legs, the clothes too big for her girlish form. "I suppose..."

"Enough of that," Francis said a touch sharply. "The people love you, Jeanne, regardless of what you decide to wear. There has been a terrific outcry over your capture."

"I'm sure Charles is thrilled," she said dryly.

Francis bit his lip. "Jeanne," he started hesitantly, "as much as the people - as much as I would wish otherwise... if Charles does not secure your release..."

Jeanne laid a finger on his lips to quiet him. "Then I will have died serving God and my country," she finished for him, "and you will have to fight in my memory." She offered him a tremulous smile. "That is not such a bad thing, is it?"

Francis felt his throat close up, brought her hands back to his lips. He was weak - so weak - and he cursed his inability to keep her safe. He had been helpless to stop the assault on her, and now he was helpless to stop her.

The door at the end of the hallway creaked, and he heard Arthur say his name in warning. Jeanne laid her hand alongside his face, blue eyes shining. "_Vivez et soyez libre_," she whispered.

He kissed the back of her hand elegantly as he rose. "Have faith, Jeanne."

She smiled again, and this time the expression was serene. "I always have, Francis."

***

Less than a week later, Jeanne was gone.

Francis stood on the bank of the Seine, eyes dimmed as he watched the river rushing by. He'd been there as she died - as they threw her ashes in the murky water. Anything that was left was on the riverbed, mixed with the silt of centuries.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said lowly behind him.

"I know," Francis acknowledged dully.

Arthur sighed. "You must understand, I could not have helped her. My boss kept me in the dark until it was too late to do anything."

"I know," the Frenchman repeated with a bitter chuckle. "You could not intervene, and my king would not. And I was powerless to do anything about it." He paused, then added quietly, "I loved her, Arthur."

There was silence for several long moments. "What will you do now?" Arthur asked finally.

"I must return to my king," he said. "The war will continue, with or without me; I might as well do my part in Jeanne's honor." Sapphire eyes flicked up to meet emerald. "Do not be surprised if this mockery of a trial infuriates my people and pushes them forward to even greater fervor."

"I understand," Arthur acknowledged. "Goodbye, Francis."

"_Au revoir, Angelterre_." He turned to go, then paused. "If - when - we meet again, I hope it is under better circumstances."

The Englishman nodded, watching Francis move towards the main road, and wondered how such a fool - for it was certainly foolish for a Nation to love a mortal - could have survived for so long.

***

_April 1603_

Almost two centuries later, Francis found himself setting foot on English soil. It was under different circumstances, for a foreign woman, but the compulsion to be there was unavoidable.

The narrow streets were packed - so tightly packed that he almost had to force his way through to be able to see. The carriage, sheathed in black velvet, was just coming into view, and he could already hear the wails of grief. The love of Arthur's people for their monarch was not surprising, but it moved him nevertheless.

He tugged his hat off as the first of the horses passed and closed his stinging eyes. Images flickered in his mind's eye - fine days at court, a revival of culture and learning unprecedented, the utter humiliation of Antonio's precious Armada. _Oh, Gloriana, you've left such a hole behind... Who can we find to fill it?_

Hours later, he made his way to the Abbey itself. Mourners were still there, trickling off in twos and threes, but he spotted a lone sandy-blond figure standing by himself near the tomb. Francis made his way over and laid a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "I am sorry," he murmured softly.

"I didn't expect you to be here," Arthur responded. His voice was raw from weeping; Francis wondered how long he'd been there. Since early morning, most likely.

"I was very fond of Elizabeth," Francis protested. "She supported my king, you know. And despite her imbecilic commanders, my people held some respect for her leadership."

"Yes," Arthur said, almost to himself. "She was a breed apart, wasn't she."

The slight drizzle that had been present all day picked up, and the Frenchman noticed for the first time how wet Arthur's clothes were. "_Angelterre_, you are soaked through to the skin. Come inside, and we'll get you some dry clothes and hot food."

Arthur said nothing, not even one of his customary barbs, and Francis moved to stand before him in worry. The Englishman's green eyes were dulled, almost vacant. Francis shook him slightly and was rewarded by a startled blink; the irises brightened momentarily. "Arthur. Inside. Now."

Emerald eyes dimmed, but Arthur allowed himself to be led away and inside.

***

When Francis awoke in the middle of the night, he found Arthur huddled miserably on the window seat. He slid out from under the covers and seated himself across from the Englishman, shivering a little in his thin chemise and trousers. "Are you well?" he asked quietly.

"Weary," Arthur sighed. "It feels like part of me has died. Like... there's a gaping empty spot, somewhere I can't really place." He drew his knees up under his chin. "I've had monarchs go before, but... not like this."

Francis saw the grief shadowing his eyes and tugged his arm, gently. "Come back to bed, _Angelterre_."

Arthur shook his head. "What's the point? I won't be able to sleep, and there's no sense keeping you up by tossing and turning."

The Frenchman rolled his eyes but rose briefly to grab the comforter, returning to wrap them both in it. "Here," he said when Arthur started to protest. "At least this way you won't catch cold. It would be quite troublesome to have to take care of you if you got sick."

His compatriot snorted but stilled, and for a while they were both silent. "Why are you here?" Arthur asked finally.

"Because there were no guest rooms prepared when I arrived, and you are too much of a gentleman to let me sleep outside."

"No, you git. I mean, yes, I am, but - ack... why are you here, in England, at all?"

"Hmm? Oh. I thought it was only proper to honor such a distinguished lady."

"That's very noble of you, considering how poorly your people feel about mine."

"I am not my people," Francis pointed out. "More often than not I must do as they wish; there are times when I can do nothing else. But then there are times like this, when I set aside France, and become just Francis, for a while." He rested his arms lazily on Arthur's shoulders. "Dealing with France is the last thing you need right now. I thought Francis would be less of a problem."

"Mmm." More silence, and then: "I felt her dying, you know," Arthur said abruptly. "Little by little. So many of her loved ones passed one right after the other, and it really wore her down. We all knew she wouldn't - couldn't last much longer, but still... It hurt, to see her go like that."

Francis' eyes were pensive in the moonlight. "Per'aps now you know what it was like for me, with Jeanne."

"No," Arthur protested, twisting to look at Francis in astonishment. "God, no. Bess - Elizabeth died of old age, with dignity and peace. Jeanne..." He swallowed roughly at the memory of flames and a terrified prayer uttered in French. "Jeanne was different entirely. And as much as it hurts, I can't - can't even imagine what it was like with her."

"But you loved Elizabeth." It was and was not a question.

"Yes," Arthur whispered. The simple admission shattered the dam he'd so carefully built, and he shuddered as he buried his face in Francis' chest. "I miss her," he choked out. "Francis, I miss her _so much_."

Francis wrapped both arms around him protectively, politely pretending not to notice the tears staining his nightshirt.

***

_Present Day_

Arthur swirled the wine in his glass gently, watching the sunset from his seat on Francis' back porch. He heard the Frenchman rummaging about in the kitchen, humming to himself, and snorted softly. The Entente Cordiale may have been something of a big deal, but it didn't warrant the celebrations Francis liked to throw. Briefly, he found himself wondering what Elizabeth would have thought of an alliance with the old frog.

Elizabeth. He closed his eyes at the familiar bittersweet pang. Despite his admission to Francis, it had taken him years, _centuries_, to accept that he had loved his queen. Not just the fondness Prussia held for his Fritz, or the way Alfred held Lincoln so dear; he _loved_ her, loved her as Ivan loved Catherine, loved her as Francis loved Jeanne.

He wondered for a moment what those two would have thought of each other, and his lips quirked a little.

"What are you smiling about, _Angleterre_?" Francis asked as he reappeared with another bottle of wine and some snacks.

Arthur held up his glass for a refill. "About our ladies, and whether or not they would have gotten along."

Francis snickered. "With Jeanne's fervor and Elizabeth's tactical skills, I have no doubt they would have had teamed up, wreaked havoc across Europe, and driven both of us absolutely mad."

"Do you think they ever imagined an alliance between us?"

"_Mon Dieu_, no. Who would have thought you'd loosen up enough to have a relationship with anyone?"

"Who'd have thought you'd stop molesting everything that moves long enough to make friends?" Arthur countered; but there was no malice in his jibe. He knew Francis chased after lovers for the same reason Arthur avoided them - as a method of dulling the pain. They just had different methods of coping.

Francis chuckled. "Keep it up, _Angleterre_, and you shall force me to break my promise."

"What promise?" Arthur teased. He knew what the answer would be: an exasperated snort, coupled with rolling eyes, and then, _My promise to myself, Arthur, that I would not save your sorry neck in battle only to later wring it myself_.

It took him several moments to realize the other had not answered. "Francis?"

The Frenchman looked downright wistful as he gazed off into the distance. "I..." He ducked his head suddenly. "When... when I visited court, long ago... Elizabeth..."

_"I know how Arthur gets, _monsieur_ Bonnefoy." Shrewd green eyes bored straight through him. "I know he tends to be a bit reckless when pursuing his passions. And... I worry, because I will not always be here to get him out of trouble. So please, if you would keep an eye on him for me? Just to make sure he does not break that fool neck of his."_

Arthur blinked at his ally-rival in shock. "You... is that why you've stuck with me all these years? Because you promised Elizabeth?"

Francis nodded a bit sheepishly. "_Oui_. I would not want to face Gloriana if you had gotten yourself killed when I was not there." He stiffened suddenly as Arthur's shoulders started to shake. "A-Arthur... please, I did not mean -" Then he broke off, blue eyes wide.

Arthur was _laughing_. There were tears, yes, but his mirth was still quite evident. Francis set his glass down firmly, affronted, and made to rise from the porch. "If you think I will stand to be mocked, _Angleterre_ - "

"Wait!" Arthur lunged forward to grab his wrist, still chuckling helplessly. _Oh, Bess, you beautiful, crafty, infuriating woman!_ "Francis, I'm not laughing at _you_. I believe you. I'm laughing because... well, Jeanne..."

_"Lord Kirkland, I know Francis is more dear to me than to you. But please - even if you do not become friends - will you keep him safe, for my sake?"_

It was Francis' turn to blink as he sank back to his seat. "Jeanne... made you promise the same thing?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Why do you think I sided with you in the Great War? And saved your sorry arse again twenty years later?"

"So you weren't acting out of the goodness of your own heart? _Mon cher_, I'm hurt."

"Oh, shut up," Arthur grumbled good-naturedly. He dropped his gaze to his hands. "Funny, isn't it, how they managed to get us to stick together after all... I thought you were a fool back then, you know. Well," he amended, "I've thought you were a fool many times. But at that point..." he fiddled with the glass for a minute before admitting, "I thought you were a fool for loving a human. For becoming attached to someone you would outlive by generations."

"Ah," Francis nodded. "But...?"

"But," Arthur sighed, "I met Elizabeth, and became a bit of a fool myself."

"And do you regret it?"

Arthur smiled a bit wistfully as he quoted, " 'Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all'."

Francis smiled back, raising his goblet in a silent toast, and their glasses clinked quietly in the dying light.

_~Fin~_

***

NOTES

~No, this one's not a Fr/UK one. Sorry, guys! I just wanted to explore something that I felt connected them both - namely, the loss of someone they deeply cared for.

~Yes, I totally ship Francis/Jeanne D'Arc and Arthur/Elizabeth. You can blame it on the terrific fanfics "J'ai Grange" and "His Queen" on . Although it must be noted, I ship it strictly in a nonsexual sense; more of "I'm devoted wholeheartedly to my country and therefore to you" from the ladies' end and the guys reciprocating such undeniable devotion (and instinctively wanting to protect such a fierce patriot).

~Title is Gaelic and translates to "My Gallant Darling", which I think is appropriate for both Elizabeth and Jeanne. (The original song actually was a lament to Charles Edward Stuart, who was in exile. There's also a version done by Celtic Woman, which really has nothing to do with the original but is lovely nonetheless.)

~_Mon_ _petit chevalier courageux = _"My brave little soldier"

~_ Vivez et soyez libre _= "live and be free"

~Yeah, I'm aware that Jeanne D'Arc didn't speak English. I don't trust online translators (read: Babelfish) for complete sentences/dialogue. Pretend they're speaking French.

~On that note, Jeanne D'Arc was unbelievably amazing. She was an uneducated French peasant, female, and managed to completely turn the tide of the Hundred Years' War in less than a year of combat action. (Wiki doesn't do her justice. Go look up Badass of the Week's article on her instead.) If you're interested in her, I recommend _An Army of Angels_, which is a pretty accurate and well-written novelization of her life.

~Elizabeth I was also pretty amazing, especially in an era when women weren't exactly respected. She actually did support the rise of the new king to the French throne, partly because he was Protestant. Her military commanders across the Channel were pretty much morons and bungled several campaigns, but a lot of people held at least a grudging respect for her own tactical skills. (There's a great biography on her I read a few years ago for a report, but the title currently eludes me.) She was affectionately known to her people as Good Queen Bess; I think Arthur would use the nickname as a sign of endearment.

~Arthur, you adorable woobie, you. ;_;

~I wonder how much of Francis and Arthur's love-hate (or like-hate, or whatever) relationship comes from their people's influence and not their own feelings.

~Arthur's final quote is from Tennyson's famous poem "In Memoriam".

~Thanks to my beta CJBlackwing, who didn't strangle me when I put the last part off for a MONTH.

~Reviews make a happy authoress. Thanks for reaing!


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